


On the Subject of My Lover, "Wanting"

by lestvt



Series: Intercourse With the Vampire [2]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, M/M, Outdoor Sex, POV First Person, Part 1, Possessive Behavior, Semi-Public Sex, tl;dr lestat and louis complain about each other and then fuck instead of talking it out like adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 13:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestvt/pseuds/lestvt
Summary: [Part 1 of 2, Lestat's POV]Life becomes a bit too harmonious for Lestat’s taste.





	On the Subject of My Lover, "Wanting"

**Author's Note:**

> my amazing friend drew this picture to go along with lestat's vision and i'll love her forever for it:  
> http://princelesthottie.tumblr.com/post/176333579372/so-its-a-bit-overdue-imo-and-there-were-a-lot
> 
> CHECK IT OUT !!!~ <333

(1/2)

**WANTING**

 

Contrary to what he might have you believe, my lover’s ego is both dangerously inflated and exceptionally fragile, and that’s nothing if not a fact. Anyone who has known him long enough to see passed his beauty and hear passed his poetic tongue will tell you the same.  

And yet, even knowing this, he remains ensnaring.

Frankly, for the first few months it’s nothing but infatuation and possessive need. You’re well aware of his morbidity, his baggage, as they say, but you don’t mind it so long as you’re allowed to watch his lips while he speaks of guilt or admire the trim of his waist while he walks away in his discontent. You might even welcome it – romanticize it - and it’s easy, because his sophisticated, holier-than-thou nature is refreshing while still new and in season, in its spring. Almost as refreshing as the color of his eyes or the taste of his blood. And to you he is paradise personified; you know you’d fall for him even if the Earth lost its gravity, you are so saturated with desire.     

That is, of course, until you realize that all along he’s been rubbing his superiority in your face, scrutinizing your every move with an air of “I expected nothing less, but I’m still disappointed by your idiocy, Lestat.”

Then the haze lifts, partially at least, because you begin to question and realize. How can he be above you – some force to be reckoned with – when he’s such a weakling – when he’s deathly dependent and ridden with an awful affliction of anxiety? How can he be as faultless as his face, educated and superior, someone worth putting on a pedestal, when he is so flawed and so obviously arrogant? And then when he clings to melancholy like a crutch? How can he be anything so ethereal?

He can’t be.

He isn’t – not so long as we are akin. And certainly not so long as he’s steady on that high horse of his, shouting down his self-loathing as justification.  

At least I make no pretences about it. At least I accept what I am.          

But anyway, my own fiendishness aside, there is a point in my saying all this. Most basically, I want you to understand that to love Louis is to love his flaws. Which I do – just as I hate them! After all, he puts up with my own, doesn’t he? And, oh, how he enjoys reminding me of it! So, what kind of lover would I be if I did not return the favor? It’s only natural, you see, only fair!

And that’s precisely what this has all been leading up to: fairness.  

But I digress, and now I’ve flown past my own point again.

I love Louis – painfully so. And no matter our collective flaws, no matter what bad blood might exist between us, above all else I always want him, and I always will. There is no greater truth than this.        

Moreover, how could I resist? And what sane person would? Other than his beauty, and aside from his arrogance, there is much to adore about him, isn't there? The _raison d'être_ for my addiction.   

Take, for example, his complexity.

Louis is educated and tries to be calculated. He reminds me often enough that I’d have to be daft to forget it (“I’m more than the looks you love to praise me for, Lestat,” - “What do you think I did while you were underground, Lestat, bide my time waiting for you to reappear?”). But then again, he’s not even bright enough to care about things like impression and appearance – which absolutely do matter! Except when it would be to my benefit. Then it’s, “have you no sense of propriety, Lestat?”

But on the flipside, in his case being educated means being articulate, which is something he uses to his advantage. Louis has an effortless skill in the art of soothing words, I mean. He can be quite empathetic – patient and gentle and kind with his tongue. His tone, his wit can be a balm, yes, but then too something with which he can maim when he feels the need. And he does feel the need, because though he might try to remain the level headed one between us, in reality he can get just as fiery as me – maybe even more so if our history has taught me anything.

Then, too, he is egotistical, but equally humble, and he generally and genuinely hates to be praised for his… aesthetics. For one thing, I suppose it might hurt his intellectual pride. But for another, I think it’s also that he doesn’t understand it to be true, at least not as he should. And, though he must know how unreasonable it is, he is insulted by the "degredation" and the "lie."  

But there is no lie.

Louis is hauntingly, unfairly beautiful. And I could go on for hours about it, as likely you’ve guessed, but I do not wish to bore you with talk of my infatuation with his body – with my ever insistent longing to lay my hands on his flesh and watch the give of it between my fingers – to strip him naked and tie him to my bed to bite and bleed dry and then feed and feed from again and again and again – to keep him locked up there, to bury and never let go, to never allow another to see him, not even when he is as pale as the moon, colorless and motionless and finally mine alone. Then too, to show him off, however – to let the world know of this demented angel I’ve acquired – for all deserve the blessing of it, but then they do not. And I don't wish to be repetitive when I tell you of the bliss upon kissing him, of coaxing his lips apart with my tongue and knowing even he can’t resist me – this man I took for myself – now this vampire so striking that even in his weakness he is devastatingly deadly.       

But oh, merciful heavens! Merely thinking about it is enough to carve a Louis-shaped hole in my heart – to make me long to take him into my arms again, and then to take him!

And I could’ve, for this night he was with me, sitting on the couch in my room, his eyes stuck to the TV, drawn in by some silly independent film from France (the pretentious, pseudo-deep kind that’s, for no particular reason, shot in black and white when color would be just as well). All I had to do was go to him, and I knew he’d succumb. It was another thing I’d learned through experience after all.

If I go to Louis, he will succumb. One way or another.

So, why didn’t I?   

Well, you see, that would be too simple, too boring, too predictable. Just to take as I’ve always taken? To be so in control, and yet so completely at his whim? To be as I’ve always been – wanting him?

No. I wanted something more this night. I wanted him to do the wanting.

But now, bearing both my want and his fragile ego in mind (as well as my own), I’ll take this moment to mention yet another not-so admirable trait of my beloved’s.

His painful passivity.

Although, to be fair, sometimes and in some ways he can be remarkably assertive, but seemingly never in the ways that matter. And always in the ways which drive me mad.  

What I’m talking about, of course, is sex. Because, if you can believe it, my Louis – my beloved, beautiful Louis – Monsieur Too-pure-for you – never initiates intimacy, if I were to put it a way which would better suit his palate.   ~~~~

Oh, sure, he pretends he does. He likes to outsmart me there, or so he thinks. And I’m fine with letting him believe he’s getting away with it, acting like I’m none the wiser, because it plays to his ego, which I adore. But it simply cannot be!

I mean, have you ever heard him talk about sex? (I doubt it!) He makes it sound so clinical and tedious that it’s honestly astounding. I didn’t think it was possible to be turned _off_ by discussing sex with a lover until I met him.

He calls it “intercourse,” for fuck’s sake! Who even does that in this century?

Trust Louis to use an ugly word like that to describe such a beautiful act of nature – what others might call “making love.” It’s almost insulting to me, his lover, and it tends to put pressure on one’s ego, I’ll have you know…

Then, when I express this notion, when I tell him he’s too passive, he says, “I told you to take me, Lestat,” as if it were his idea. But my hands are already grasping him, and I’ve already begun defiling his mouth – I’ve long since taken him. Then later, when I’m calling him out on it, “My methods are just more subtle than yours, Lestat,” as if he’s ever made some great effort to seduce me in the past. But my memory is just as reliable as his, if not more so. So, I know he hasn’t.

And he must know that I know, I think, because why else would he put in the effort to pretend? It’s not his way. He’s not some hapless whore afraid of a beheading; he could defy and deny me if he wanted to, and he _knows_ it.

Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time!    

Not that Louis dislikes sex either, no matter the appalled glare he shoots me every time I dare to point this out ~~in public~~. He’s merely private and proper in that old-fashioned manner of his, which is really just a fancy way of saying he’s always been a stuck-up prude.

 Honestly, he probably thinks it would infringe upon his pre-eminence to openly acknowledge how hot and bothered he is for me.    

At least as long as we’re both dressed, that is, because, while Louis might consider himself holy, it’s not God’s name he’s calling out when we’re alone in my bed. On the contrary, actually, and I think you know what I’m getting at by bringing this up.         

Speaking of which, my bed felt incredibly lonely all of the sudden. And cold. And with this in mind, I bore into the side of Louis’s head with my eyes, watching the faint movement of his jaw and lips where he half-mouthed memorized lines of his movie. It was one of his favorites, I cared enough to note (he should be thanking me for that). No doubt he’d seen it dozens, if not hundreds of times. Still, I hoped my gaze would be enough to drag him back to me, that it might hold the proper impact needed to garner his attention again. I hoped it held such power over _him_ – true power without power.   

Alas. It did not. Louis didn't look at me. He didn't even move.  

 _He’d rather watch some stupid movie_ , I thought. And I shuddered involuntarily, colder than ever before.   

Affronted by his ignorance and offended that he didn’t experience the shift in atmosphere as I had, I became suddenly irate. I began wondering, _why is he even here?_ He was a liar to say he wished to be with me when, meanwhile, I was alone in my longing for him. He was in my room, but he wasn’t with me. His thoughts weren’t on me, nor were his eyes. And this simply would not do.  

No, I couldn’t be the only one doing the wanting.

I couldn’t be.

I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t stand for it!  

…

So, obviously I didn’t.

Looking back, now I can freely say that what I did next was both admittedly petty and entirely too predictable for me, but I can’t say I’m ashamed. Shame has never done me much good. And as usual I chose to forgo it in favor of action.  

And, without moving a muscle, I unplugged the TV.  

As soon as the screen flickered to black, Louis turned to look at me – finally – his face already set with a goaded glare. Even his displeasure was pleasing, I found, but only as long as it was aimed in my direction.   

He uttered my name low and airy, an exasperated warning, and I couldn’t help smiling at the sound of it.   

“Lestat.”

“Whoops,” I said and then laughed as I lounged back across my bed. “I’m sorry, _mon chéri_. My mistake.”

“Mistake?” Louis asked, incredulous; he narrowed his eyes. “If there’s something you wish to say then say it.”

“It was an accident.”

“And you expect me to believe that? Lestat, you’ve been brooding since I got here, and now you’re trying to provoke me. Clearly, something is on your mind.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” I told him and pointedly started examining my nails for dirt.

Louis didn’t dignify this blatant lie with a response. Instead, he stood to plug the TV back into the wall, probably glancing my way with a suspicious scowl on his face all the while. And I looked up in time to watch him bend over, letting my eyes drag along the curves and hard edges of his body, shoulder to thigh – lingering, imagining sinking into him as he lay prone beneath me.

And, as soon as he settled back onto the couch, I immediately unplugged the TV again.

Louis turned sharp, saying everything with his eyes.

“Whoops, again.” Facially, I didn’t even bother to feign innocence this time around. Rather, I rolled onto my side to show him my sneer. “Must’ve slipped.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his expression changing only minutely.  

“Of course it did,” he eventually sighed, angering me further by not taking the bait. “Now, what is it you want?”

“Want?” I wondered. “Nothing. That movie’s just so dull. I thought I’d spare us both the torture of sitting through it again. Would it _kill_ you to watch something more upbeat for a change?”  

Louis sighed again, harder this time, then rolled his eyes and stood up.

“It’s not dull,” he huffed, sounding suddenly withdrawn. “You just have awful taste.”

Then, without looking at me, he began towards the door.

At once, my feet hit the ground, and I snapped at him, “Where do you think you’re going?!” 

It was preemptive rage, of course. And in it I was ready to drag him back to me and never let go if necessary. After all, he’d promised to stay and be mine tonight, promised to let me have him. And while I wasn’t going to make him be with me always, for I had long since learned that it would do us more harm than good, right now I would do what I must to keep him. And he’d have no right to complain or argue against it, because he’d only be arguing against himself.

That is to say, if it will bring him peace of mind, usually I’m willing to admit that he is free and his own – not wholly mine. But on nights like tonight he belonged to no one else. And that was our compromise – our very unspoken agreement - the one he’d agreed to by coming to me. If he tried breaking it now, I would require his penance.    

But Louis looked over his shoulder, smiling slight and less than kindly and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” in a very deliberately patronizing tone, as if he were reassuring a clingy child. “I just need to warm up.”

And, for whatever reason, I found his indirectness galling.    

“I’ll come with you,” I answered anyway, quick and eager.

“No,” he denied just as quickly, and just as I suspected he would, “not tonight.”

“But…”

“No. Just wait here, Lestat. Be patient and be good. You can do that, can’t you? In all your years of playing the fiend, you haven’t forgotten how?”

And that had me reeling, about to jump him for his insolence and to remind him precisely how powerless he was compared to me. But, just like that, and before I could rightly react, he was gone, leaving me hungrier than I’d been before. And now I was even more livid with it, knowing that I was still the one doing the wanting – not him, _never_ him.

I asked myself, has there ever been a time when Louis wanted me like this? Does he ever feel this incessant yearning just the same as I do? No? Because it doesn’t seem like he does. Or is he simply that much better at hiding these things? Sometimes I can’t be sure. He comes to me – with me – for me – on and in me. He says that his need for solitude doesn’t diminish his need for me, and yet he walks away, abandons me when I so obviously crave his attention, when I am basically begging for it. And it’s as if he is unaffected.

_Is he?_

I can’t stop the notion from snowballing. 

But, no, he couldn’t be. I’ve seen and heard. I know he wants me, or why else would he come at all? Why else would he stay? But then, he doesn’t stay, does he? And so I have to wonder, does he even really want me? Can I trust his word? He slights me so often, shrugs me off, like he did the night I tried to propose. He said, “I’ll consider it,” but has he? Even a little? I don’t know. I haven’t asked, nor has he brought it up since. I remember he was so congenial, so accommodating that night, but not now, not anymore.

Then, was it just an act? Or was this the act?

And the third possibility, the one I had not previously considered: Is Louis always acting? And if so, does that mean he tolerates me, appeases me, simply because I am his persistent, deprived maker? Because he is stuck with me? And that’s all?  

And shouldn’t I already know the answer to that?

What was it again?

Yes?

No?

No.

 _No, no, no. Louis isn’t like that_ , I’m reminded by the ghost of him.   

I shouldn’t doubt him like this either, it’s in poor taste. Trust in him, I tell myself, because it’s something he loves to say. He’s grown out of his willingness to suffer, I know. He’s become someone sounder than he once was, and more willing, I can see that (most of the time). And he’s obstinate, Lestat, remember that most of all! He wouldn’t speak of love, wouldn’t come to you if he didn’t wish to!

…

Would he? 

Because he is obstinate, but is he not equally reliant? Is he not so different from a victim after all – that hapless whore I compared him to before?

I don't know.  

Sooner or later it donned on me that this train of thought was going nowhere though, except maybe a one-way trip to insanity. And even so, I had to commend myself for waiting as long as I feasibly could to act on my more tremulous emotions. In that moment nothing could’ve been harder, yet I remained there in my room, alone, pacing the floor and running on a wheel of pointless, endlessly unanswered questions. Trying to be patient – to be reasonable, until reasonability itself began to seem unreasonable. And then, at last, I could take it no more.

In the end, it turns out I waited barely two hours before giving in (and it was the longest two hours of my prolonged life). But, even so, this was a considerable feat for me, and it would’ve been inconceivable to expect anything more.

I didn’t mean to disrupt or even cause harm, of course. I was simply going to watch, or so I told myself, to protect and adore and make sure Louis comes home before the night is up, lest I have to drag him back myself. And I was sure he’d just _love_ that.

In all actuality though, if he wanted to leave there wasn’t much I could do... would do to stop him, and of this I was intensely aware. If I wanted Louis, I wanted him of his own volition, and to try to control him would be detrimental to that cause. So, I wouldn’t cross the line. I wouldn’t attack or even reveal myself this time, I silently vowed.   

I’d be “good.”

I’d just stalk him a little.

But “stalk” is such a hideous word, more so than the act actually implies in this case. And anyway, it’s harmless, and there was no real danger of being caught. I had experience, after all, and it was with this experience that I knew Louis was at a great disadvantage against me. Especially considering the fact that he was none the wiser to my pursuit.

 _Or was he?_ A little voice inquired. _Does he not know you well enough to know you would follow him? Was that not his plan all along, to make you follow, to have you give chase?_

Probably not, I reasoned, for Louis loves his solitude after we argue in particular and even more so when it comes to the hunt. I doubt he would willingly initiate a chase.

Still, as I set out after him, I couldn’t help wondering…

It was a Saturday, mid-evening, and the streets were weighed down with mortal life, pulsating pleasantly. Even in my pre-frenzy state, I was spellbound by the city around me. I could hear the buzzing of neon signs alongside voices, thoughts, and heartbeats, their vibrant glow tinting the night in an array of sweet colors – rose, teal, gold, and violet bouncing off wet pavement and dirty glass windows, making the world shine diamondesque. I could smell living perspiration and blood and rain on the way – could hear the thunder rolling in the distance, still too far for human ears to detect – then the thunder of the subway underfoot, close enough to be felt by all. Too, I felt the humidity enveloping me in its embrace, rising up from the ground in an earthly sweat, and it was so powerful and beautiful that I knew then I should’ve been at peace.       

 _The night is alive_ , I had sometimes thought.  _She is a living, breathing entity that will bend for you if only you take the time to romance her._

But right now I had not the time for yet another lover.

I took off just like that, sticking close to the rooftops and scanning the world below like some kind of bird of prey. (Well, I can fly. And I am definitely a predator. So, in a way, maybe I am one – but let’s not get into that…) It wouldn’t take me long to find Louis, I was certain. He wasn’t fast or foolish enough to leave town, not if he knew me in the slightest. But with no pattern to help predict his feeding habits, I had no clue as to where to begin my search.

Luckily, Louis can’t walk further than I can fly in two hours. And, even so, it took less than one to find him.  

I was in a clubbing district of town when I heard someone cry out, and I took special note of this, because it was an area I loved to frequent, a fact Louis was well aware of. 

At first, I thought nothing of it. This part of town was always packed with tightly dressed youths, each done up in their best with one goal in mind: to get laid. And I was used to it, for there was always an opera of debauchery to be heard here. But this had been no ordinary cry; it was familiar – one I’d caused thousands of times! And it stopped me in my tracks, compelling me to peer down over the building’s ledge, and inciting the rage that began contorting my expression into something monstrous and grim. 

It was Louis. 

And he was not alone. 

There he was, my beautiful one, allowing himself to be pinned against the bricks at the back of the alley, his lips reddened, I saw, and I realized he and the mortal man with him had been making out before I arrived. There was a slight sheen of saliva around Louis’s lips, clear and horrendous to me, his eyes half-lidded as he lost himself in the moment, and as the killer inside him began to emerge.

An obsidian energy was radiating exponentially from him, my dark darling – severe and animalistic – and I could not tear my eyes away, no matter my disgust. He was simply too beautiful a monster – too lovely not to watch. I felt the embers of my desire for him again sparking to light before his basic existence, even in the face of my dissatisfaction.

And, all the while, I pitied the man who held him. He was pathetically oblivious, too lusty a fool to see that this handsome gentleman was actually death in disguise, and it was then that I found myself feeling interestingly empathetic to his plight. I could not make out the details of his face, as it was hidden in Louis’s neck, sucking and gnawing at him in a way which was all too ironic. However, I did notice that he was blond and well built, and that he was caught in my lover’s trap – the tropic of his eyes, the jut of his lips, and the cut of his jaw not rightly serving their purpose, like bright colors on a poison butterfly, or the patterns of a venomous snake. And, as if I were having an out of body experience, I saw my own face on that soon-to-be-victim.    

I must have made a noise then, something small and desperate in the back of my throat, because Louis’s eyes widened and shot to me, his expression hardening.   

Suddenly, he grabbed the man by the hair and ripped him away well enough to hurt. And, without breaking eye contact with me, he sunk his fangs into that supple, living throat and drank from it, finally closing his eyes again only when he could not help but submit to the ecstasy of taking a life.

Rage rapidly forgotten, I became enraptured in its place, drawn in by the ferocity of my beloved much the same as he was drawn in by his beloved movie. I saw with keen eyes, once more memorizing the undulation of his pale throat as he took mouthful after mouthful from the man, watching it fill him with color, seeing the sturdiness of his grip on that frantic, struggling meal.

My body shuddered and everything went hot, that spark-turned-throbbing in the fire pit of my stomach causing all rational thought to leave my mind. I landed on the ground before I could second guess myself, making my way slowly towards the scene, not wanting to interrupt, but needing to touch – to take – to own him – too weep at the lethal magnificence of my dearest fledgling.  

In a snap, Louis opened his eyes and looked straight at me, defensive and honed onto my presence as I approached. Then, with one final swallow, he dislodged and dropped the near-dead man in a heap on the ground, paying him no further mind, refusing to shift his gaze.

We both stared, silent and tense, giving me just enough time to follow the line of blood that escaped his lips, trailing down his chin.

“Found you,” I whispered.

And Louis did not scold or complain. He simply stared on, so hauntingly silent and still that he resembled a sculpture, a work of art with frayed black silk for hair, red resin for the blood on his mouth – a depiction as stunning as Michelangelo’s and even more immaculate. Modernized.  

There was no anger or surprise or disgust in his eyes. There was nothing at all, not even recognition, and I realized he was likely still experiencing the high of the bloodlust. And something about that thought made me want him even more than I already did, as if that were possible. I’m not sure what it was – maybe how very inhuman he looked in the city’s teal tint, the shadows broken across his face, or the strange emotional vulnerability of the moments following the drink, the lingering image of his victim holding him against the wall, innocent, and then struggling and overpowered, and then gone – but, whatever the cause, it had me ravenous. My body smoldered so powerfully that I thought steam might emerge from my pores.

He had ignited me merely by being what I made him to be.

And unintentionally.

And I loved him for it.     

We stood in silence for a long while, head to head like two alley cats about to get into a spat – my hands clenched in fists, chest heaving. Louis, immobile and staring hard, but empty – my painted marble masterpiece. But I didn’t want to scratch or hiss.   

“Come here, Louis,” I said in a low voice, lifting my hand to offer.  

He didn’t take it.  

“Louis,” I beckoned and repeated, this time even lower and lengthier, each syllable a drop of wax between my teeth. “Come. Here.”    

Still, nothing.

For a moment I thought, _wouldn’t it be nice to go back to the old days, when to leave me might be fatal? Wouldn’t it be nice to have him that way again – unstable – unchanged – unwilling or able?_

But just as quickly as it came, I cast it to the fire.

That dreaded, awful fire.

And I closed the distance between us completely, knocking him into wall with a thud, just where he had been and now ought to be, and then in an act of impulse I began licking the mess from his chin. In response, Louis’s whole body lurched against me, and he angled his face for a kiss as he broke out of his reverie, to which I gladly obliged. And my reward came in the form of his hands gliding around my waist, pulling me in, in that instance making me believe he wanted me too.

“Let’s go home,” I offered when he pulled back, acutely aware of the corpse at our feet.

He shook his head.

“No.”

Then he rested his forehead against mine, and like that I could see every speck in his irises, every minute alteration to the color – the very depths of his pupils, blown wide.

“Why not?” I bit out, my fingers digging into his hips. “You’ve fed.”

But instead of rejection Louis reddened (still looking forlorn) and pulled me flush against him, colliding our bodies near painfully. And with this I could feel the movement of his chest and hips, his fingers rubbing mindless patterns into my lower spine, the other hand now at the back of my neck, applying adamant pressure.   

“No,” he gasped against my lips. “Do it here. Now.”

His words made me gape unflatteringly.  

“Here? Now? You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

I licked my lips, thinking that I wished they were his.  

“But you always say…”

Louis cut me off, barking my name, then something like “listen to what I’m saying right now,” and not backing down – acting like this was his plan all along – going off about something to do with “pig-headedness” and “fear” and taking a tone with me, insisting “I want you to do it, because…” as if he’d ever willingly allow me to defile him here, where anyone could stumble upon us. Not when, as I said before, he is so private in that way. Not when he hates a risk.       

But at the time all I heard was “Lestat” and “I want you.” And that was enough.

Then we were kissing again, and I gripped the thick hair at the base of his skull and tugged rather unkindly, using it manipulate him for easier access to his mouth. Louis allowed this and even groaned and tugged back, urging me on, further convincing me that he does like a little abuse every now and again. If not more than.  

 _Why else would he come back to me?_ I reasoned.

I made quick work of his jacket, unnecessary, and shirt, and even quicker work of his lower half (his clothes all dark grays and black, I had the presence of mind to notice). And, with that, my hands were drawn like magnets to his newly exposed form, compelled, and I was stepping back to admire my handiwork.

Louis averted his gaze, stupidly ashamed. His eyes darted to his clothes on the ground, then to the sounds and smells of the mortals just around the corner, walking and laughing, naught but a few yards from us, then to the body of the man. Anywhere but where they should be.

“Stop it,” I said.  

He looked to me and blinked, all incredulity and confusion, again my personal paradise when he unknowingly did exactly what I wanted. Then to a pique when he leaned in close and uttered, “You’re the one who’s stopped,” in his lightest, most teasingly intimate voice. 

Delighted, I laughed loud, earning a frown from him for my carelessness, unimpressed, but safe to dismiss. Then I hooked my hands underneath his thighs and hoisted him up merely because I could, because it thrilled me to have him suspended there between that brick wall and my brick body. And I pressed forward and trailed the tip of my tongue north along his jaw, pausing at the curve of it, resting my lips just below his ear to relish in the borrowed warmth he radiated, the way that man’s fresh blood dramatized the rose kissed complexion of his face, his throat. I parted my lips as though to warn of a bite, mouthing at the pulse point, feeling it pick up. Then the dig of his fingers in my shoulders, latched from when I’d lifted him.

I sunk in, drawing out his voice, tightening my hands as his legs tightened on my hips, and falling for his flavor. The weight bearing down on my arms, the struggle of his chest against mine, the flex of this neck, and his jaw pressed into my cheek, all real, solid and beguiling. Drunk, although, I drank but a bit, not enough to gratify, not nearly enough.

I wasn’t feeling so generous or indulgent tonight. I had other plans.

After detaching, I licked the stain of blood from my teeth and looked to Louis’s dazed expression.

His hands slipped idly off my shoulders, down my sides and over his own thighs. Then he stopped at the legs of my pants, where he tugged on and dug at the leather, marring it up with his nails.

“These can’t be comfortable,” he guessed. And if I didn’t know him any better, I’d say he was being playful.

“ _Au contraire_ , I’ve never been more so,” I joked back just in case.

He raised a shapely, skeptical brow.  

“But aren’t they rather… tight?”

“Like an embrace,” I explained.

And at that Louis smiled and narrowed his eyes, staying that way just long enough for me to guess his intentions. Then his arms wrapped around my neck, his legs crossed at the ankle behind me, and he pulled me in to plunder my breath with his tongue. I made a low, contented hum against him and responded to the kiss eagerly, lapping up the wet sounds we made, hissing then laughing when my lip was bit, and rubbing friction between our bodies - feeling his growing hardness digging into my lower belly, and my own ready and responding.   

Abruptly, I pulled his legs apart and planted him on the ground, realigning us, then not when my knee rose up between his, and my hands pried his arms away and trapped him by wrist, pausing to admire the display – this buffet set out before me.

“No,” I decided, “face the wall” - not truly a request, since as the words left me I was already forcing him around, his cheek now resting on brick, head held there by my hand, and his arms neatly folded against his back, stuck just the same. Exposed and averse, but acquiescent, and all my own to adore.

“Just like that,” I chuckled, kissing his shoulder sweetly. “Good boy.”

Any other night this would be the moment for Louis to scold me. This would be when he’d glare and push me away to call me out on my possessive, off-putting nature, to remind me that he does not belong to me – that he will not be manipulated - will not listen to my patronizing silently and obediently like a child, even though he is my cursed immortal child after all.

But he did none of that. Instead, he was quiet. And he looked at me from the corner of his eye, frowning, but not in anger.

“What’s wrong?” I taunted, unserious and unkind, if not a bit pensive of the answer. “Not feeling very patient?”

“Not that you’d even know the meaning of the word. Patience,” Louis said, “is a virtue.”

“I could be virtuous if I wanted,” I countered. “I just don’t.”

Then I released his arms and set to work if only to halt his rebuttal, running my one hand down his lower spine in a feather-light touch, making him shiver for me, and using the other to fist his cock. And without warning, I pressed two fingers inside, apt to surprise.  

“Uh!” Louis gasped pleasantly. And that was my cue to begin exploring his warm, velvety inner walls, no blood or lube to ease the way, just my smooth, dry skin. My grip on him the only distraction.  

And being inside him, even in this diminutive way, this way which brought me a different, less direct kind of pleasure, was enough to dissolve the world around me. To have him in my hands, at my mercy made the muscles in my face relax so dramatically, I was astounded to realize just how tense I'd been. It seemed I’d already forgotten what a balm his body could be – not merely his words.

I watched, eyes wide and absorbing, where my fingers disappeared within him, two lethargic inches at a time, all in, then almost all out, then all in and all out again and again, faster with every pass, only tearing my gaze away when I saw Louis drag his hand down the wall, then up to cover his mouth, forcing back the soft, needy sounds dripping through there.

Annoyed, I angled my hand accordingly, aiming to make him wail with that certain special spot.    

“Oh! 'Stat – wait!” 

I waited. If only to admire the wrecked look on his face.

“What? Does it hurt?”

He was glaring at me now.

“…Lestat.”

“Tell me. Right here, does it hurt?”

For emphasis, I pressed my fingers forward. 

“Ah!”

Then I gave him a moment to reply. And when he said nothing, I did it again.

“Well?”

“ _Mon dieu!_ No!” Louis spat. “Just don’t stop!” 

But, of course, I had no intention of stopping. Obviously. So, I abided, my fingers still buried to the third knuckle, now pushing forward with shallow, demanding thrusts. I didn’t bother to pull out more than a centimeter or two, but pressed into him harshly and unrelenting, focused on forcing his voice.  

Louis ducked his head against the wall and sobbed pathetically, shaking from the onslaught of sensation, scraping and pressing forward so roughly that his palms and fingertips cut on the bricks. I knew, because I smelled the blood.  

Given some time, I added a third finger with relative ease, and when I simultaneously began stroking him in a leisurely, loose grip, he closed his eyes and his hips jolted uncertainly, not knowing which feeling to chase. Again, I kissed his neck almost as if to soothe and lined us up, my clothed chest on his naked back, my mouth sucking what skin it could reach and chewing in forewarning.

Then, sliding up to lick at the shell of his ear, I whispered, “Really, I want to know. How is it?” And gave another forceful jab. “Do you like having my fingers inside you?”

Louis emitted a petulant whine and angled his head away from me as if I’d burnt his cheek with my words. But he’d turned red well before that.

Again, no reply.

“Or would you prefer something a bit more substantial?” I wondered.

I withdrew from him with that and gripped him by the hip, keeping at stroking his cock almost lovingly, enjoying the solid, hard weight of it in my hand, its thickness and warmth, as well as the empowering emotions that came from holding him in such a vulnerable and personal place.

Louis’s fingers flexed, nails catching on the ridges of the wall and seeking for something to ground him. He looked so pitiful like this, moaning and shifting around sporadically, trying and failing to control the pace as I jerked him off. Pitiful and comical and so painfully beautiful that, had I any to spare, it might’ve taken my breath away. Now, more than ever before, I wanted – _needed_ him. For me, there was nothing, no one in this pocket of urban paradise but us, and I was mad with longing and a spiking, hot possessiveness.

And I had a vision: a gate opening to a tropical grove, trees bountiful with ornaments of fruit and flowers and garlands of vine, reaching up towards a shining sun – one in particular loftier and lusher than the rest. At the roots sat a bed of moss, leaves, and petals, and Louis lying there, unmoving and bare and holding a padlock in both hands – myself beside him, and in my own hands, a key. Together, we were demonic erotica, a fantastical fresco, an intricate mechanism of safety and reliance, for one would have no purpose without the other, no function. And together, I knew, we were meant to persist, to change and advance, and yet stay the same.

In reality, I was still in that alleyway though, dirty and true, albeit a fantasy world in and of itself in a far more pragmatic sense of the word. No trees, no gentle, harmless sunlight. But Louis remained. And that was hard to believe.  

And it was with this in mind that I released my hold on him and, after listening to his airy sigh, freed my erection from its leather confines. Then I leaned into him, one hand pinning his shoulders to the wall, the other dragging my length up and down across his entrance, bubbles of excitement traveling through my spine and limbs only to fizz out in the tips of my digits, like nerves fixing from frostbite.

I was suddenly starving.

Finally, I did as I felt I had to: I pushed into him inch by painstaking inch – closing my eyes to see again that quiet copse set aside just for us – imagining having him there – private and destined to break for sin, something like Adam and Eve, but far more rotten and fruitless, and therefore far more meaningful. It was a vivid image, an untouchable world made touchable when I wrapped myself around him, when I inhaled that old, familiar scent he carried, the one which always reminded me of floral wallpapers, windy balconies and potted plants, peaceful walks, and, in essence, New Orleans. I would’ve been lost there if not from the way he sang for me, his voice a beckoning moan. I might never have opened my eyes again if not for my desire to see how his lips looked around that sound. 

Louis's tight warmth surrounding my cock was a drug for panic – overpowering, yet comforting. The way he choked on my name, reaching back to wrap his hand around my wrist as though it might gain him some control – perfectly lovely and all I could ever want - feeling and having only me.

I twisted my arm to thread our fingers together, ignoring the looseness of his grip, and focused on the sight of his hole stretching around my girth. It made my chest ache deliciously, and without thinking I began rocking into him just like that, once again loosing myself in the process. My forehead landing on his back, my free hand traveling around to cradle the front of his neck in something like a threat, or a promise, and he pushed his hips back, causing an echoing groan to escape me.

For his part, Louis looked a mess – defenseless and disheveled, but taking it so well, so pliant and willing that I nearly forgot all his earlier transgressions. Until then I remembered them. And, like that, the slow, gentle tempo with which I fucked him gave way to harsh, impassioned thrusts – his body careening and rubbing with every inward motion. He was panting heavily and frantically, eyes cracked open, half-lidded and foggy. And I righted myself and rested my lips on his cheek, lingering there to let him know I acknowledged the words he could not say, the sentiment written clearly across his face.       

Then I raked my nails down his neck and stomach, light enough not to cut, but hard enough to leave long, angry red marks. And I took his length into my hand again to pump it in time with the heave of his chest and the press of my cock inside him.   

“Oh – Lestat!” Louis gasped.  “That’s…!”

“Good?”

“Mhmm...”  

“Ah,” I huffed, trying and failing to gather my thoughts. “Yes. Very good.” 

But I was more or less lost to it. And with what little sense I maintained, I spent it watching as Louis lost himself to it too, as he pressed his lips together in a thin line and little creases appeared on his forehead and eyes. And I basked in the pressure of his hands locked onto me, helplessly seeking what relief it might offer.

I wanted it too, that relief. And I wanted it together.

The persistent clench of him, the way he moved with me, chasing the satisfaction of being filled, was first what warned me that the end was drawing near. And the mental image of wetting him inside, injecting him with my bloodied seed and covering him in my scent, made my stomach tighten similarly, anticipating and begging to make that thought a reality. 

It was close – so tantalizingly close and so purely divine. If I could have one wish, I thought, I’d ask for this moment to go on forever, for our eternity to consist of this mind-blowing physical love sitting on the precipice of painful pleasure, this drive to get under Louis’s skin and _be_ of him. It was not yet done, but I lamented it’s passing already, even knowing full well it would come again, perhaps even more intensely next time. Or perhaps softer and kinder, more romantic, but perfect in its own separately beautiful way.

This in mind, I guided his head to the side, opening him up to be kissed. And I dove into him this way too, still working him with my cock frenetically, but now with my tongue as well – coaxing him to slip back into me, to respond when I sucked his into my mouth.

And bit down on it.

Louis cried out, raucous and aggrieved as an injured predator, trickling into a high, keening sound that slowly became a moan. And I drank from him that way, the intimacy of a kiss accompanying the taste of heaven, the slide of thick, heated blood gushing and traveling mouth to mouth, then down my aching throat. I was desperately hungry for it, but home in contentment – the kitten suckling for mother’s milk – and I shuddered as the swoon set in, mounting my pleasure, making my body feel light – weightless.

When I finally fell back to myself, I immediately knew I had come. And that I was still buried within him.

Louis was convulsing in my arms though, eyes shut tight and hard in my hand, which had halted as I drank. And his mouth hung open, blotchy with blood, complimenting the contrast of his paleness so nicely, the puffy pinkness of his drippy lips. So, I withdrew from his body slowly, relishing in the drag of him on my over-sensitive prick – in the sore sound he made. Then (after tucking myself away) I turned him around to face me, taking him back into hand. Again, just holding him there.

“Look at me,” I ordered.

Without resistance, he did. And his eyes, as always, were the color of that grove – the dream I wanted so badly to live. It made my heart pound. 

Stagnant, I stared, watching the twitch of the muscles near his eyes and mouth, how he fought to keep from shying away from my gaze when, once more, I began working him towards orgasm. But my grip was secure and insistent this time around, and Louis latched onto me just like before, digging his nails into my skin. Only now the jade of his eyes was on display, pinned to my own, and under these streetlamps their glossy finish was reminiscent of jewels in fluorescent store lighting, trapped beneath a pristine case of glass.

I saw nothing but him – nothing but the way he reacted to my touch – my tone.

I reached around to slip my fingers back into him, intrigued by how open and wet he felt there, loving how it made him lean into me and rub his face against my shoulder. He melted in my hands, clenching and clutching and pivoting as I prodded him, and I reveled in it for as long as I could. Until, finally, he came on my palm with an airy groan. One I felt brush passed my neck. And I kissed his temple. 

And then it was over, and all I’d forgotten, all I had worried for came flooding back in a hurricane of distress. I was slightly mollified by Louis’s body, his sounds and scent and needs all-encompassing around me. But all the while I was thinking of the last time I’d had him. I was thinking that it wasn’t ample anymore – that I needed to know. I wanted an answer.

So, I asked.          

“Have you considered it enough yet?”

Of course, now that I’d come out and said it, he was back to avoiding my eyes. 

“Or is that not what you want?” I had to know.

But he gave me nothing. Nothing, except silence.

“Come on, Louis, tell me!” I finally snapped, unable to resist. “Tell me why you don’t want me!”

And, around us, the world just stopped. My shame, the one to pull the plug.  

However, after a moment Louis ran his hands down my arms, petting then prying at my fingers, releasing himself from my grasp. He reached for his pants on the ground.

I let him go reluctantly, but without argument, watching with wary eyes until he turned back. Then, without a word, he put one palm on my chest, the other finding a spot at the curve of my shoulder, and we stayed like that for a long while: Louis, now clothed, unkempt and clinging to me, his hands bloody as his mouth and staining my shirt, but healing. Me, still like a statue, just as he’d been before. Entranced.

As soon as he’d drawn near enough, I’d gripped his waist in an unwavering embrace, and neither of us dared to speak. In that silence, we simply stared. I do not know how long we stood there, only that in that time he’d overtaken my every sense. And that I was powerless, hypnotized by his attractiveness and my own misgivings about wanting him. Dissatisfied by this physical connection that went no further than a mortal’s might, except that it was given more time. But indulging in it anyway.   

Suddenly, lightning flashed overhead, not shocking, not enough to break the stare, but solidifying it. A second’s worth of light plenty to act as a camera, plenty to illuminate my lover in high quality and embed him like a photo in the album of my mind. Plenty to make me want him again already.

And the city was as still as it could be now, the night dragging on towards morning and bringing the living down with it, calling them to rest. From an open window not far away I could hear the muffled sound of a young woman crying into a pillow, a man yelling down the hall. To the west, the heady scent of tobacco and cannabis smoke surrounding a group of grumbling teenagers, hiding and speaking to each other in angry, hormonal whispers. And somewhere further south, the wounded screeches of a small animal facing its end, poetic in its pain – the serenade of the Savage Garden.       

Then, just like that, it began to rain, making the stench of population that much stronger – my delirium too. At first, a soft sprinkle, then a downpour, and still not enough to sober me. Not enough to retrieve me from that grove.   

In real time, I watched as strands of Louis’s hair began to clump together in thick, wavy wires of black, as the droplets stuck to his eyelashes like petite crystal balls, escaping to roll down his cheeks when he blinked, then converging with the blood on his mouth and turning it pink and thin and dripping like strawberry soda. And I kissed each drop away and drank them up, salty as tears, but not – lamenting over the lack of sugary sweetness.  

Finally, it was Louis who ended the silence, breaking through the thrum of the storm with my own words repeated back at me.    

“Let’s go home.”    

And I kissed him again, quick and light and without tongue, but soaked in gratitude.     

“ _Oui_ ,” I agreed. _“S’il vous plaît.”_

And together we vanished into the night.

Just as I wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. There it is: Part One... 
> 
> I hope it was worth the wait, because I had a lot of fun writing it. And, like usual, please ignore any mistakes. I haven't read through it all the way more than once yet, so there's definitely plenty of errors to be fixed (For example: I use a questionable excess of dashes and commas, I know). But otherwise it's done, so... cool, I guess. 
> 
> Anyway, Part Two will be from Louis's POV and is entitled "RRA(+R)" which won't make sense until you read it. And alone, it will be at least 5k words, I think. So, shorter than this chapter (maybe), but still pretty long as far as simple smut is concerned... 
> 
> Once that's up though, I'll go back to working on LITNOL, I promise. 
> 
> In the meantime, I hope this helps ease the wait. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! They're my life source...  
> Thanks for reading!~
> 
> (P.S., this story, "His Song," and all my future [read: potential] VC smutshots should be considered a part of the same canon-divergent universe and will from now on be filed under the series title "Intercourse With the Vampire" [hilarious and original, I know] for your viewing convenience. That's all. Bye.)
> 
> \----------
> 
> FRENCH TRANSLATIONS: (as always, checked via Google) 
> 
> raison d'être – purpose  
> mon chéri – my dear (but Google translates it to “honey” which is also good tbh)  
> au contraire – on the contrary  
> mon dieu – my god  
> oui – yes  
> s’il vous plait – please
> 
> \----------
> 
> EDITED on 7/15/2018: So, yeah, I did some editing today, because like a week ago I realized I never put this fic through the wringer like I should've... so it had a lot of kinks that still needed working out. I'm sure there's some I missed. But for now I think things are looking a little better lol
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!~


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